WHEN Middle Eastern
refugees began arriving in Europe last year, Martina Scheibova, a
consultant in Prague, felt sympathy for them. Now she is less sure.
They create a “clash of cultures”, she says anxiously. Such fears
are shared by many Europeans. But unlike Germans or Swedes, Ms
Scheibova is unlikely to encounter many refugees. Czech public
opinion is solidly against taking in asylum-seekers; Milos Zeman, the
Czech Republic’s populist president, calls Muslim refugees
“practically impossible” to integrate. In the past year, the
country has accepted just 520.

The backlash against
refugees can be felt across Europe. Xenophobic parties are at record
levels in polls in Sweden and the Netherlands, and even in Germany
the Eurosceptic, far-right Alternative für Deutschland party is
polling in double digits. But central Europe’s response has been
particularly strong. Anti-migrant sentiment has unified the “Visegrad
group” of Hungary, Poland, Slovakia and the Czech Republic—normally
a disparate bunch who agree on some subjects (like opposing Europe’s
climate policies) but are divided on others (like Russia). Rather
than noisy opposition groups, it is governments in these countries
who trumpet some of the most extreme views. And they are taking
advantage of anti-migrant fervour to implement an illiberal agenda on
other fronts, too.

Viktor Orban,
Hungary’s prime minister, has been the loudest of the
anti-immigrant voices. Mr Orban began inveighing against migrants
early in 2015, after the Charlie Hebdo attacks in Paris, when the
numbers arriving in Europe were still relatively low. His government
now wants to introduce anti-terror laws that worry civil
libertarians, though the details are vague. Fidesz, Mr Orban’s
party, pioneered Europe’s illiberal wave: when it came to power in
2010 it limited the constitutional court’s powers, packed it with
cronies and introduced a new constitution. Fidesz changed the
electoral system, helping it win again in 2014, says Andras Biro-Nagy
of Policy Solutions, a think-tank. A new media regulator was set up,
headed by a Fidesz stalwart. Public television channels were stuffed
with pro-Fidesz journalists, while foreign media were taxed more
heavily than domestic ones. (The tax was rescinded after criticism
from the main foreign channel, RTL Klub.)

For Visegrad, the
game-changer was the November election victory in Poland of the
nationalist conservative Law and Justice party (PiS). Jaroslaw
Kaczynski, the party leader, has admired Mr Orban for years. Konrad
Szymanski, the deputy foreign minister for European affairs, says
Poland now plans to beef up its co-operation with the Visegrad group.
The government is dead against any further European deals to allocate
refugees among member states. Meanwhile, since taking power in
November, PiS has sacked the heads of the security and intelligence
services, weakened the constitutional tribunal (and packed it with
its own supporters), and passed a new media law that lets it install
loyalists to head the public radio and TV channels. The European
Commission is examining whether all this violates Poland’s
commitments to the rule of law.

Politics in Slovakia
and the Czech Republic are a bit different, but in both countries
politicians have jumped on the issue of refugees. In December Robert
Fico, the prime minister of Slovakia (who is seeking re-election in
March), launched a legal challenge to the EU’s migration policy,
which he describes as “ritual suicide”. (Hungary filed a
challenge soon after.) Bohuslav Sobotka, the Czech prime minister, is
less bombastic than Mr Zeman, but he too rejects refugee quotas.
Conditions for those already in the country are shoddy.

These populist
politics have been a hit with voters. Last spring Fidesz was falling
in the polls, while support for Jobbik, a far-right party, was
surging. Today Fidesz would win a majority again. Support for Mr
Fico’s Smer party had stalled last year, but since the refugee
crisis erupted it has been rising. PiS’s support base is among
disgruntled older voters, who are particularly fearful of
immigration. This week, at a meeting staged by a conservative group
in Warsaw on whether Poland was threatened by a “colour
revolution”, the question of what to call refugees came up. A woman
in the audience suggested “invaders”. A speaker opted for
“Islamists”.

The newfound unity
between the four countries delights populist politicians. “Probably
the only good thing in the whole migration crisis is that the V4
[Visegrad group] has found a common voice and strategy,” says
Marton Gyongyosi of Jobbik. The group “allows three small countries
to punch above their weight”, says Gyorgy Schopflin, a Fidesz MEP.

The Visegrad group
once aimed to accelerate its members’ integration into the EU. Its
turn towards illiberalism presents Europe with a problem. Since new
rules came into force in 2014, the group no longer has a blocking
minority in the European Council. But it can cause headaches,
particularly if it influences neighbours such as Romania or Bulgaria.
Meanwhile, polls show trust in the EU has fallen in all four
countries. In fact, Visegrad countries rely heavily on EU funding—it
amounted to 6% of GDP in Hungary in 2013. Yet many are disappointed
in Europe. “People thought we would have the same living standards
as Austrians or Britons,” says Ferenc Gyurcsany, who served as
Hungary’s prime minister from 2004 to 2009.

Rising
Euroscepticism could backfire on the group. Informal talks on the
next multi-year EU budget have begun, and Germany has hinted that it
will favour countries that share the burden of refugees. Already many
European officials are growing impatient with the group. Milan Nic of
the Central European Policy Institute recalls the days when Austrian
politicians, for example, used to talk about the Visegrad group with
respect. “Nowadays”, he says, “Visegrad is like a bad word.”